


Almond Blossom

by Ayla221bee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vincent Van Gogh - Freeform, van gogh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayla221bee/pseuds/Ayla221bee
Summary: Greg and Mycroft go to a Van Gogh exhibition.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 1
Kudos: 47





	Almond Blossom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sandwastesinthevoidofmychest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/gifts).



> A fic that no one needed, created after me reading about the Van Gogh brothers all day for research of my novel. I just wanted an excuse to combine Van Gogh and Mystrade together, and I was inspired by sandwastesinthevoidofmychest's Anything for you, love. It's wonderful and please read it! it!https://archiveofourown.org/works/19362955
> 
> The exhibition was inspired by the Meet Vincent exhibition which has travelled the world and was in London last year, I never went to it and I did five minutes of research, so I do apologise for things being wrong.

There was something about the paintings that just spoke to Mycroft; he could not put his finger on it. He had never seen anything so beautiful; nothing had captivated him so much before and made him want to go back to them, never tiring of them and they never dulled, he constantly discovered something new. 

He spent so many hours pouring over the paintings, examining them carefully and trying to gather as much detail as he could. He loved the use of colour and the texture of them, he loved seeing the brushstrokes on the canvas. There was nothing quite like it. He always made sure to visit the museum when he was in the Netherlands regardless of his schedule and he would go to the museums that had one of Vincent’s paintings, dedicating a part of his afternoon to look at one painting if needed. 

He loved the stories about the paintings and there was something that spoke to him. He had read all the letters that Vincent had written to his brother Theo, considering them to be just as great masterpieces as Vincent’s canvases. There was a way that Vincent described the beauty of nature that made Mycroft feel as if he was discovering it for the first time through Vincent's eyes.

He had even taken Vincent’s advice to his brother about walking a lot and loving nature; for it was the only way to appreciate art. He had followed Vincent’s advice on a few matters when it came to life; deciding to ignore Vincent’s advice about pipe smoking as it would surely ruin his efforts to give up smoking. 

Greg had taken him to an exhibition in the South Bank, his afternoon had been cleared for him, a surprise afternoon out. Mycroft had never been that fond of surprises but he welcomed this one, finding himself rather thrilled at the prospect of going to a Van Gogh exhibition. 

  
The exhibition was full and there were screaming schoolchildren, excited that they could interact with the exhibitions; being able to sit at the Potato Eaters table and being able to get up close to the exhibit. Mycroft didn’t mind that much and spent the time closely examining the paintings and enjoying hearing Vincent’s letters read out to him. 

“I should have gotten tickets for a quieter time,” Greg said, as they walked into a quieter section of the exhibition, inspecting Almond Blossom. “What is the story about this one?” 

Mycroft smiled and squeezed Greg’s hand before he spoke. Greg had asked him for his thoughts on certain paintings and the story behind them, claiming that he didn’t know anything about them even though he had listened to him talk about them before and they had watched countless documentaries. He had the suspicion that Greg just rather enjoyed listening to him talk about Van Gogh, he was always rather enthusiastic about talking about him. 

“Vincent started painting this in February 1890 after the birth of his nephew, Vincent Willem, who he was made godfather. It is a painting of hope and of celebration,” Mycroft rambled on enthusiastically. “Vincent wasn’t happy about being made godfather or that the child was named after him though, but he painted this to hang in the bedroom though. It is a favourite of mine.”

Greg chuckled to himself, amused with a thought in his head. “I’m trying to imagine what Sherlock would do if we ever had a child or a cat, whatever really, I can’t imagine him painting something for us.”

Mycroft gave him a small smile; he could never imagine that Sherlock would do anything of the sort for him. He did not think that Sherlock loved him enough to do something like that; the two did not love another, did not have that symbiotic relationship that Vincent and Theo had, one of having two minds but one heart. 

  
“I don’t think that he would,” he said. “I think that it is more likely for him to send us a horrific experiment of his.”

  
“And I thought that he didn’t have a problem with us being together.”

“That is his way of showing affection,” Mycroft said dryly. 

Greg guided him to another painting, Butterflies, and asked Mycroft to give him all the information that he knew about him, their fingers interlocked with another, Greg pressed closely by his side. Mycroft did not think of a better way to spend the afternoon. 

They moved to a small display of portraits, Mycroft rambled on about the Roulin family, who Vincent had a friendship with and his time in Arles, explaining at length about the evening of December 23rd 1888 in Arles with Gaugain and Vincent’s ear. He worried that Greg was getting bored of him rambling but he encouraged him, smiling as he spoke, clearly enjoying what he had to say.

“I think that is evident that they really loved another,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft’s attention away from the small collection to Vincent’s letters to his brother which were on display and heard over the audio. “Vincent and Theo. You can tell how much they adored another and they thought the world of another. Without Theo, Vincent wouldn’t have painted would he?”

Mycroft shook his head. “He was the only person who really did encourage him and he paid for his supplies. He cared for his brother more than anything in the world, worried about him constantly.”

“It makes you think of you and Sherlock, doesn’t it?” He asked knowingly, giving Mycroft’s hand a tight squeeze. “That is why you enjoy the paintings so much, isn’t it? It’s the stories about them.”

Mycroft nodded and gave Greg a shy smile. “I started to read Vincent’s letters and discover his artwork when Sherlock was in the midst of...his problem. I had discovered the paintings in a magazine in a waiting room...I needed them at the time,” the words felt painful to say. The memories of that part of his life were still sharp at times, the pain of them had dulled considerably and they were easier to hold though. “It was the one thing that helped me get through, I know that it is silly.”   
  


Greg shook his head and kissed his temple. “I don’t think it is,” he said, reassuring him. “If it is a thing that helps you get through then it’s great. We need something to help us get through life; it’s the art of scraping through.” 

Mycroft nodded in agreement, his fingers linked tightly with Greg’s. He looked at Sunflowers and smiled to himself; that painting was a favourite of his and brought back to the few happy summers that he had a child with the sunflowers in the garden. They had always been his favourite flowers and they always seemed to evoke happiness in him that he somehow managed to cling onto despite everything he had been through over the years. Yellow was a favourite colour of his. 

“I do worry that you love Vincent more than me,” Greg teased with a grin, nudging Mycroft’s side as he caught him engrossed in a painting, examining the brushstrokes on the painting. “I don’t mind if you do though.”

“You are rather wonderful too,” Mycroft said, pressing a kiss to Greg’s cheek. “I think that you are the only thing that is better than Vincent. You are my favourite thing in this exhibition.” 


End file.
